Now came the tricky part. Because the orbiter was pointed nose up, the astronauts had to twist like gymnasts to maneuver themselves up into the upper deck and into their flight chairs. After a few grunts and strains they made it, while trying to ignore the four crates of Stinger missiles lashed down in the crew deck.
Once in their seats, Heitmann and Townsend pulled out the first of several three-ring binders which contained the voluminous preflight checklist. Although computers handled the bulk of the checklist chores, there was still a lot with which the crew had to contend. To begin his de rigueur preflight checks, Heitmann propped the binder into its special holder on the console panel, being careful not to let it slip. Since the Constellation was facing nose up, a dropped notebook would fall all the way to the back wall, possibly catching Watkins right between the eyes on the way down.
Mission Specialist Sandford Watkins didn't have a whole lot to do during the preflight checks, so he studied a manual on the operation of the Stinger missile to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything about the arming and firing sequence.
Outside in the gantry arm, two technicians closed the hatch door, then engaged the electronic actuator which caused the twenty-eight latches on the hatch ring to pop into place. With his hand-held radio, a technician told the systems engineer inside Firing Room 1\vo that the hatch was closed.
"I copy," said the engineer, who, in turn, notified the Cap Com — the person who handled all communication with the spacecraft crew.
"Constellation, this is Launch Control," said the Cap Com. "Your hatch is closed."
Heitmann looked at the green light on his console under sde hch—one of the 2,040 dials, switches, gauges, and instruments on the orbiter's control panels. He radioed back, "Roger, Control, I copy side hatch closed."
Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack strode into Mission Control at the Consolidated Space Operations Center (CSOC) looking tired and unshaven and wearing his green flight suit. He'd just parked his Talon at nearby Peterson Air Force Base. Despite Whittenberg's order to get some rest, he'd slept very little before leaving Cape Canaveral.
When senators and congressman visited the Mission Control room at CSOC, or its civilian counterpart at NASA in Houston, they were always surprised at the smallness of the enclosure. "It always looks so big on TV," was the usual remark, and that was true. During the Mercury, Gemini, Apollo, and shuttle programs, the Mission Control room in Houston was always photographed by the networks with a wide-angle lens, making it appear giant size. Perhaps that made things more dramatic. But in fact, it was a small room. The Kaliningrad Flite Control Centre was much larger, because it did not rely as much on computers and required more people to perform many of the tasks.
McCormack went straight to the mission director. "What's the status at thirty-nine?" he asked, meaning Pad 39A.
The chubby and balding director — an Army lieutenant colonel — had his checklist ready. "Fueling is about complete. No problems there. Manipulator arm circuit breaker is having some glitches again, but since we're not doing anything with a payload that shouldn't matter. Primary heat exchanger in crew deck environmental system has a clogged tube, but backup is working all right. Hydraulic line on speed brake isn't testing right. Could be a malfunction on the test circuit, but can't say at this point. And the Ku-band transponder is kaput. Have no idea why. In short, nothing abortable."
With a machine as complex as the shuttle, it was rare when everything worked without a glitch. In fact, having a flawless space vehicle prior to launch never happened. But small glitches were permissible. A big glitch — like a bad valve on the liquid oxygen feed — was not permissible and could abort a launch.
"What about the flight plan?" asked McCormack.
"Navigation has it all computed and it will be loaded into the BFS computer fifteen minutes before lift-off," said the director. "If we get off on schedule, the rendezvous shouldn't be any problem at all."
McCormack sighed, "Good," then collapsed into the mission director's chair.
The mission director looked his boss over carefully. Mc-Cormack's "rakish" appearance was undercut by his ashen face, and for the first time there appeared to be some gray in that perfect head of blond hair. "General," said the mission director charitably, "if you don't mind my saying so, you look like hammered shit."
The Director of Central Intelligence, or DCI, looked out the picture window of his seventh-floor office into a void of pitch-black darkness. Had it been daylight, he would have seen a beautiful Virginia forest, and perhaps a deer striding across a distant meadow. But now it was dark. Impenetrable. Much like this whole damned Intrepid affair, he mused.
After attending the White House briefing on the rogue spacecraft, he'd sent out an ALL CHIEFS OF STATION URGENT cable for something — anything — on this Intrepid business and had come up with absolutely zero. Nothing. About every hour the Vice President had called him, fishing for something. The gangly framed DCI with a toothy grin had nothing to give. Zip. It was frustrating. He'd been in the intelligence business most of his professional life, coming up the signals intelligence route through the Army. He'd run into stone walls before, but never like this. Frustration — and no sleep. But sleep was a nasty habit he'd shaken years ago.
The door burst open without the prelude of a knock. It was the professional-looking deputy director, waving a cable in his hand. "I'm not sure, but we may have something," he said, trying to contain his excitement. "How it figures into the Intrepid business I can't say, but this just came in on a one-time disk from Canberra." The DCI grabbed die cable, put on his reading glasses, and scanned the message. Twice.
"Hmmm," he murmured. "A phony shuttle?"
"Yeah," concurred the deputy. "The source is on the scene at Baikonur, too, and Australian SIS says he's solid gold."
The DCI scratched his head. "Well, at least it's something. I'll get this to Bergstrom. Send a copy on a one-time disk to Whittenberg at SPACECOM. Maybe he can make something out of it."
"Gotcha."
The deputy exited and the DCI picked up his secure phone to inform the White House about the message. But then he stopped. Although the DCI felt confident about using the secure Oracle system, the fact remained that electronic "ferrets" operating in the Soviet Embassy could monitor 70 percent of all telephone microwave traffic in Washington, D.C. With something as important as this Baikonur source, the DCI wasn't willing to take so much as a minuscule chance of its being compromised. He put down the phone and grabbed his coat. He'd hand-carry it to the White House himself.
"Rabbit's Nest, this is Spyglass. We're in position, just waiting to take a picture of the Constellation-Intrepid rendezvous. Let us know pronto if any of the Constellation's specs change after lift-off. In the meantime, we'll just hang around up here and keep the coffee warm."
"Roger, Spyglass… Say, I'm curious. What's your exterior temperature?"
The chief master sergeant leaned over his console to check the readout on the outside air temperature. The high altitude-767 observation platform was accustomed to temperature extremes. "Looks like a minus seven-three degrees, Rabbit's Nest. Fahrenheit-type.''